The morning sun cast long shadows across the ravine as the group prepared for their journey to Blackridge. The Wagon-Fortress sat quiet behind them, its systems dormant but intact. Victor's consciousness remained safely in his core, though his connection to the fortress's systems was still severed - leaving S-01 as his only physical conduit to the outside world.

  Pip wiped grease from her hands as she stepped back to admire their handiwork. "Not bad for scrap metal and prayer robes."

  Before them stood S-01, transformed. The sentinel's distinctive armored plating had been draped with a heavy, tattered cloak scavenged from the fortress's stores. Borin had hammered out dents and welded decorative flourishes to mimic ornate plate armor. A faded tabard hung across the chest, bearing the insignia of a forgotten holy order.

  Aelin's keen elven eyes narrowed in appraisal. "The silhouette is convincing. But the eyes give him away."

  Pip produced a pair of darkened lenses from her pack. "Not anymore." She affixed them carefully over S-01's optics, then stepped back. "There. Now he just looks like a very tall, very devout paladin with poor vision."

  Borin chuckled as he adjusted his pack. "And if anyone asks, we'll say he's taken a vow of silence. Convenient, that."

  "This deception sits ill with me,"Victor's voice rumbled through their earpieces."I should not need to hide."

  "Neither should a gnome engineer," Pip countered, "but here we are." She turned to the others. "I'm staying behind."

  Aelin's eyebrow arched. "Explain."

  "Someone needs to guard the fortress," Pip said, patting the wrench at her belt. "Victor can only control S-01 right now. If those creatures come back while you're gone..."

  "She's right," Victor admitted reluctantly. "The fortress is vulnerable."

  Borin hefted his warhammer. "Just don't blow anything up while we're gone."

  "Only if absolutely necessary," Pip grinned.

  Aelin slung her bow across her back. "The disguise is sound. Few look too closely at holy warriors—especially ones large enough to crack skulls with their bare hands."

  The group turned as one to Hale, who sat bound and gagged against a rock. His eyes burned with hatred, but the gag muffled whatever venom he wished to spit.

  "Right then," Borin said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get this traitor to Blackridge, get Victor his cores, and get our fortress back in fighting shape."

  As the others prepared to leave with their disguised sentinel and bound prisoner, Pip made final adjustments to S-01's armor. "Remember," she whispered, "you're Brother Steelhelm now. Vow of silence. Terrible battle scarred your voice. Got it?"

  The lenses hid S-01's optic glow as it nodded once.

  Watching them disappear down the ravine, Pip turned back to the silent fortress, her tools already in hand. Somewhere inside, Victor's core pulsed steadily.

  "Alright, you overgrown toaster," she muttered, rolling up her sleeves. "Let's see what systems we can patch up before they get back."

  As they set out, the newly-disguised S-01 took up position as their rear guard, his heavy footfalls now muffled by layers of cloth and clever engineering. The amethyst-gold scars beneath his armor pulsed faintly—a reminder of what they'd gained, and what still needed to be repaired.

  The road to Blackridge stretched before them, winding through rocky foothills and into unknown dangers. But for the first time in weeks, they marched with something like hope.

  The Road to Blackridge"

  The sun beat down on the dusty trail as the disguised party trudged toward Blackridge. S-01—now "Brother Steelhelm"—loomed at the rear, his heavy footfalls muffled by layers of padding. Hale shuffled along in front of him, bound wrists chafing, his perpetual smirk replaced by a sullen glare.

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  Borin wiped sweat from his brow, eyeing their prisoner. "Should've just executed him back at camp. Would've been easier than this damn hike."

  Aelin didn't glance back as she adjusted her quiver. "And deny Blackridge the pleasure of watching him swing? That's practically criminal."

  Hale snorted. "You're all heart, elf."

  A scream shattered the afternoon stillness.

  Around the bend, a merchant's wagon lay overturned, three bandits circling a terrified family—a heavyset human merchant shielding his wife and two children as the thieves brandished rusty blades.

  Hale grinned. "Keep walking. Not our circus, not our—"

  Borin immediately grabbed Hale by the collar. "Not taking any chances with you, traitor."

  Before Hale could protest, Aelin had him pinned against a tree, her dagger at his throat as she expertly looped rope around his torso, binding him securely to the trunk.

  "Comfortable?" she asked sweetly, giving the ropes an extra tug.

  Hale sneered. "You're wasting time. That family will be dead before—"

  S-01's massive fist slammed into the tree beside Hale's head, showering him with bark. The message was clear.

  "We'll be back, don't even think about escaping". Victor said in a low and ominous tone.

  Before Hale could respond S-01 was already moving.

  As they rushed toward the commotion, Borin muttered, "Should've kept him gagged."

  The sentinel's massive form barreled forward, cloak billowing to reveal glints of metal beneath. The first bandit turned just in time to catch a plated fist to the jaw. He crumpled like a sack of rotten potatoes.

  Aelin's arrow took the second brigand in the thigh before he could flee. The third made the mistake of swinging at Borin—a decision he regretted when the dwarf's hammer shattered his kneecap with an audible pop.

  The merchant family gaped at their rescuers, the wife clutching her children. "The Order of the Silver Hand!" she gasped, staring at S-01's imposing frame. "Praise the Light!"

  S-01 inclined his head in perfect pious silence.

  Borin rolled his eyes. "Aye, praise the damn Light." He hauled up the groaning bandit by his collar. "How many more of you filth are out here?"

  The man spat blood. "Go to hel—"

  Aelin's dagger pressed against his throat. "He asked nicely."

  "...Two dozen," the bandit croaked. "Old quarry. Waiting for the ore shipment tomorrow."

  Borin dropped him with a grunt. "Because of course they are."

  The portly merchant wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief before stepping forward, his family huddled behind him. "Jorvan Hearthwell," he introduced himself with a shaky bow. "This is my wife Lissa, and our children Tomas and Elin. We're iron merchants from the southern valleys - or we were, until the bandits started targeting the trade roads." He gestured to his damaged wagon where several crates of blacksmithing tools and ingot molds were visible beneath the torn canvas. "This shipment was supposed to establish our new forge in Blackridge. Now..." His voice trailed off as he looked at his trembling children.

  Lissa clutched her daughter closer. "Please, noble warriors," she implored, "escort us the rest of the way. We may not have much coin left after the robbery, but we can pay you in quality ironwork once our forge is established."

  Aelin's ears twitched as she scanned the surrounding rocks. "We're heading that way regardless."

  Borin scratched his beard, eyeing the merchant's tools. "Decent smithing gear you've got there. Might be worth more than coin if we need repairs on the road." He shot a glance at S-01's disguised form.

  Hale, still bound nearby, let out a derisive laugh. "Trading protection for blacksmith favors now? How far the mighty have fallen."

  S-01's massive hand clamped down on Hale's shoulder hard enough to make the bones creak.

  "Quiet," Victor's voice rumbled through their earpieces.

  Young Tomas, no more than eight years old, peeked out from behind his mother's skirts. "Are you really a holy knight?" he asked S-01 with wide eyes.

  The sentinel inclined its head slightly, the very picture of solemn dignity.

  Aelin smirked. "He's taken a vow of silence. Terrible wyrm attack scarred his voice."

  Jorvan walked alongside Borin as they got the wagon moving again. "That one," he said quietly, nodding at Hale. "He's your prisoner?"

  "Aye," Borin grunted. "And if he gives us any trouble, we'll let Brother Steelhelm here remind him why that's a bad idea."

  "Assuming the Blackridge garrison doesn't hang him on sight," Victor remarked dryly through their earpieces.

  As the group continued down the road, the distant sounds of Blackridge's mining operations grew clearer - the rhythmic clang of pickaxes, the rumble of ore carts. The Hearthwells' promise of future smithing services was welcome, but the bandit's warning about the quarry ambush weighed heavily.

  They had a few extra prisoners to deliver, a merchant family to protect, and now - if the bandit's information was good - an impending ore shipment attack to prevent.